


be strong, saith my heart.

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caretaking, Depressed Steve Rogers, Depression, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Wilson, References to Depression, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Angst, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, recovery is not linear, steve is so sad but sam makes it better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You are a soldier. You have seen worse sights than this.”orsometimes Steve breaks down, and Sam tries to hold the pieces together.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 107





	be strong, saith my heart.

**Author's Note:**

> in this house we disrespect cw and aou  
> also, copious use of pet names because i’m soft for sam calling steve baby darling and honey

Some days are good, Sam thinks.

Some days, Steve’s smile is as golden as the sunlight reflecting off his hair, blue eyes glittering and curved into crescents from how hard he’s smiling.

Other days are not as good, and his expression is stormy, irises almost grey beneath his furrowed brows. The stiff lines his shoulder blades draw in his shirt make Sam’s fingers itch to soothe.

But today is a bad day. They’d been on the road for weeks, scouring the dreary forests and half-empty towns of eastern Europe before returning to New York, hearts as empty as their hands, but there seems to be no relief.

He’s not sure how he knows, but he does. Months of living out of each other’s pockets does that to a person, Sam supposes. They’re sleeping back to back as always, forever ready to leap up and defend themselves—even in Stark Tower, arguably the safest place on Earth.

He can feel Steve’s spine digging into his back, the weight lost in feverish nights of work and nauseating days of worry. Sometimes, Sam catches him absently setting food aside for later, stretching his meals without thinking about it. (It’s all too easy to forget that Steve had lived his whole life hungry—he just has more to lose now. Sam tries his best to fight this truth.)

On the road, Steve would probably have pushed on for days at a time if Sam hadn’t forced him to stop and rest. Knowing that Sam is more human than him, he never disputes the suggestion, but there’s always a barely suppressed agony in his eyes when whatever car they ‘borrowed’ finally pulls over.

_Bucky can’t rest, why can I?_

Sam’s not sure he has an answer.

The air in every vehicle is heavy with guilt and pain by the time they anonymously drop it off.

A crack in the curtains spills a thin river of morning light across the tiled floor and onto their bedsheets. Even Stark air purifiers can’t catch everything, and the dust motes glitter as they drift into the sunlight. Sam turns in bed to look at Steve.

His long body is curled small, hands tucked close into his chest and knees bent loosely, ankles crossed. His eyes are open, Sam realizes with a start.

“Steve?” Sam gets up, all lingering sleepiness washed away by a wave of concern and a swell of nausea in his chest.

It makes sense, in a twisted kind of way.

Steve had been burning himself out, pushing himself down the filthy back alleys of every European city, through forests and small towns, following the fast fading footprints of the elusive Winter Soldier.

Sam can easily list several times in which he had woken in the middle of the night, looking up to see a silhouette hunched over the laptop or the endless HYDRA files.

After Tony forced them home (Sam tells himself to not feel guilty for calling the Tower late one night, while Steve slept off two bullet wounds and a supporting beam to the head in their dirty single-bed motel room), he has no incentive to keep going, triggering a mental crash in the safety of the Tower.

He’s not awake. Something is missing, and his eyes remind Sam of vacant windows, empty and unseeing.

“Oh, honey.”

At first, Steve gives no indication of hearing his voice, eyes fixed on some middle distance in front of him. Then his focus slides towards Sam’s approaching figure, recognition coming sluggishly.

Sam reaches out slowly, keeping both hands in view. Steve’s eyes close as Sam’s fingertips touch his cheek, carding through his hair to rest at the back of his head.

There are fine blue and green and purple veins on the backs of his eyelids, criss-crossing intricately. The skin under his eyes looks thinner, almost translucent over the dark shadows, his lips dry and colorless. He looks drained, faded.

This kind of exhaustion isn’t something sleep can fix.

Sam sits down on the edge of the bed, feeling Steve curl slightly closer to him. He scratches lightly at Steve’s scalp, smoothing back his floppy forelock.

“Do you wanna get out of bed? We can watch a movie on the couch.”

Steve whines softly in protest.

“I know, baby. You’ll feel better if you’re not in bed the whole day, I promise.”

There’s something heartbreaking about the visibly fatigued way that Steve swings his legs out of bed, every movement stiff and disjointed. Sam has to stop his own hands from reaching out to help.

Instead, he leads the way out of the room into the living space. (Sam feels like Orpheus, leading Eurydice out of the Underworld. He makes a point of not looking back.) He can hear Steve shuffling out slowly, the scrape of the kitchen barstool behind him as he sets out to put some breakfast together.

Sam’s ma was a strong believer in the healing powers of homemade chicken noodle soup. He’d been trained well in the kitchen; the knife in his hand feels more natural chopping carrots than it ever did in his line of work. The familiar rhythm of cooking settles into his bones and centers him as he works.

Steve’s sitting at the counter, staring blankly at the mug of warm water before him. He’s so still that if there wasn’t such a profound air of grief around him, Sam would hardly be aware of his presence

He blinks slowly when Sam gently slides a steaming bowl in front of him, hazy eyes tracking the movement of the soup. For the first time that morning, he meets Sam’s eyes, gaze flicking up and back down at the soup.

His hand moves sluggishly with the spoon, eating mechanically. It’s a quarter hour before the bowl is emptied; Sam’s already had his fill, a book in his hands as he reads next to Steve. The kitchen is quiet except the flipping of his pages and the clink of metal against ceramic.

Sam looks up when Steve shifts in his seat, setting down the spoon. There’s a calmer look in his eyes now instead of the bleakness from earlier.

“Done?”

Steve nods. His eyes are fixed down at his knees.

“Doin’ great, baby. Go sit on the couch while I grab blankets?”

He nods again. There’s a deep shame in the flush on his cheeks and the burning tips of his ears, and his fingers fist in the soft material of his sweatpants. It twists something in Sam to see the blatant self-reproach, but he keeps his protest to himself, turning to dig a throw blanket out of the hall cabinet.

Steve’s sitting obediently on the couch when he returns with two cups of tea in his hands, curled into the corner seat. His gaze follows Sam’s hands placing the cups down on the coffee table, smoothing down the blanket over the two of them.

They’re halfway through the second Star Wars movie when he shifts, golden head dropping into Sam’s lap. Gently, Sam threads his fingers into his hair, brushing the longer strands back from his forehead. Steve’s eyes flutter shut, settling. Sam raises his gaze back to the television, warmth blooming in his chest.

Steve holds it together until Sam hands him a cup of water and it slips out of his hands, the glass shattering loudly on the tile.

His expression is frozen in shock, drained blue eyes filling with tears. In the silence of the kitchen, Sam can hear the breath catch in his throat.

“It’s okay—“ he starts to say, but cuts himself off with a yelp as Steve slides to the floor, nearly landing in the glass.

Sam barely manages to catch both of Steve’s wrists as he reaches for the glass with his _bare hands_. “Steve—! Hey, hey buddy. Are you with me?”

Steve’s whole body is shaking now, quivering like he’s on the edge of falling apart. He’s murmuring under his breath, rocking in Sam’s grasp.

Then there are hot tears seeping into the shoulder of Sam's T-shirt, and Steve's sucking in horrible, wracking gasps against his collarbone. Sam's eyes burn, and he closes them, wrapping his arms around Steve as tight as he dares.

They sit on that floor for a long time, wrapped in each other until both of them are cried out.

Steve’s lips move soundlessly, and Sam leans forward.

“What was that, baby?”

Glassy eyes meet his, a sliver of dull blue peeking out. “‘m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, darling.”

Sam wakes up in their shared bed, the warm press of Steve’s back into his.

Here, in the soft sanctuary of sunlight and white pillows, he looks vulnerable and young (god, he’s so young), long eyelashes (brown fading into blond at the tips) fanned out against his proud cheekbones. His features are somewhat softened with sleep, the taut lines of stress in his face smoothed out. Soft peach fuzz glows around the curve of his cheek, like a mini eclipse.

It’s been a long time since Sam’s seen him like this.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you think!! i love love love reading your reviews and they mean the world to me! <3 thank you so much for reading :')


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